


It's a Complex, Unorganized, Horribly Chaotic Life

by supernaturallylost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, maintains basic canon elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernaturallylost/pseuds/supernaturallylost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the movie, 'It's a Wonderful Life'. Dean's 10-year contract is close to its collection point around Christmas time. Hopeless and afraid, Dean finds himself wishing he had never been born. His wish comes true after he meets an angel who calls himself Castiel and claims to have yet to earn his wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Complex, Unorganized, Horribly Chaotic Life

_Lawrence, Kansas_

December 21st

The time is twelve minutes after seven, and the sky is only just beginning to grow dark. The only bar in town is muffled by insulating snow, just as the colorful lights blink softly in between the falling white flakes. When the door opens, a drunken man bends over into the bushes while joyful jeers spread through the open door and across the ice.

On the other side of the street, a ’67 Impala sits idle in a snow bank. The owner of the car isn’t in view, but there are figures pushing the front end of the vehicle, trying to force it back into the road. Shaking the car does not help, but they continue rocking it back and forth while the wheels spin hopelessly. Eventually, one of the figures stops pushing on the hood of the car and takes out a cell phone.

A few blocks away, the demon Crowley scrutinizes a piece of paper. He raises an eyebrow, nods, and taps his pointer finger just there. The line he’s been waiting for brings his lips into a tight, satisfied smile. His teeth glisten in the glow of the electric light as he calls forth his assistant.

Suddenly, the tires of the impala catch ground and burst backward. Three of the figures fall flat on the ground while the man with the phone bends over in laughter. The impala’s front window opens, and a vague muffled thanks floats through the snow. When the window rolls up again, the car continues to drive.

It’s a quiet night. Everything is still and serene, as if waiting to be photographed for a greeting card. Nothing seems out of place or wrong, and no one seems anything other than pleasant. The snow piles on.

* * *

 

December 22nd

The time is twenty-three minutes after ten. The sun is peering curiously into the windows of the motel, through the sheer curtains and onto the still sleeping form of a large man in plaid. His brown hair is inside of his mouth as he breathes in deeply. When he breathes out, the hair floats for a second before falling even further in. A small pool of saliva interrupts the old floral pattern of the pillowcase.

The demon Crowley smirks contentedly, nodding to his assistant. He asks her to change the date. Two more days, he commands, and no less.

Outside of the bar, the ’67 impala collects a dusting of snow. The owner is not inside of it, but his bag is. Barely visible are a flask, a bag of salt, and what only a naive child would assume to be a prop of a gun. Also in the bag is an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

A couple streets away, the most well-known writer in all of Lawrence is hard at work on his twenty-eighth novel. In this episode, Sam and Dean Winchester argue about the costs and benefits of exercise. The writer chuckles when he learns that Dean will have the better argument. He shakes his head at his own creative genius and takes a long drink of coffee. He stretches his fingers, and he laughs to himself.

Again in the motel room, the large man stirs, chokes a little on his tongue, and frantically spits his hair from his mouth. He starts upward, accidentally slamming his hand against the beige landline. Quickly replacing the receiver, the man takes a deep breath, runs his hands through his hair, and wiggles his nose. Though his eyes still show tiredness, his hands fumble around for a piece of paper that has been worn with how much it’s been folded, opened, and folded again. Upon the paper are a name, an address, and a problem. The large man tastes his desire for sleep, but forces himself to his feet.

Lisa and her son walk through the town grocery store, looking for a Christmas ham. Almost all of them are gone, but they manage to find one just the right size for the two of them.

* * *

 

December 23rd

The time is fifty-eight minutes after three. Bobby rearranges his gun collection, repaints the devil’s traps on the ceilings and floors, and takes another swig of whiskey. He smiles in spite of himself.

It isn’t snowing today, but the cold air itself seems to fall thickly. The few people who venture outside wear several layers of jackets and scarves and pants. Some of them look ridiculous in the strange assortment of colors they’ve assembled. For a moment, this creates a smirk on the faces of car owners, but the smile disappears when the cars can’t manage to start and they, too, are forced to walk wherever it is they need to go. Even the impala rests along the curbside.

A photograph inside the bar sticks out from the others. Two women, an older brunette and a very young blonde, are sitting in the same bar, arms over each other’s shoulder. The mother looks impishly happy, and the daughter looks annoyed. Still, they both smile with love for whoever is behind the camera.

The large man hasn’t announced that he’s in town yet, but he intends to do it tomorrow. For the moment, he paces inside the motel room. His business yesterday went well, but it is still unfinished. He’d saved the talking for last, and now regrets that decision as he gestures to the air in practice.

The last person to get indoors quickly bolts the door behind her. She reestablishes the lines of salt across the doors and windows before taking off her many coats. Meg’s eyes go black for a moment when she smiles, but soon she resumes life as normal. She goes to make coffee, reads a book about the rarity of unicorns, and takes a deep breath. Sometimes she caught herself feeling more human than demon. She knew exactly who to blame for that disgustingly positive influence, too. She grinned, not with her usual spite and thirst for revenge, but with acceptance and even a small drop of gratitude.

Against her will, Lisa is forced to smile at the chief patron of her diner. She knows that face from somewhere, and something about it is sad. She smiles nonetheless and offers the man some tea, which he promptly declines.

* * *

 

December 24th

The time is one minute after nine, and the moon is hidden behind opaque clouds. Snow falls diligently, entirely oblivious to the scorn coming from the town below. While most of the town has resigned to stay inside, there are others determined to defy confinement. Here, those ‘others’ include the demon Crowley and the owner of the ’67 impala.

The impala itself is still parked by a warehouse. The large man from the motel sees it and runs, opening its door hysterically. Seeing no one inside, he curses. His fist slams against the top of the car, which causes a miniature avalanche of snow to fall into the interior. Despite his temporary insanity, and perhaps because of it, he cringes while biting his lip. His brother will kill him for that. He hops into the snow covered seat regardless and starts the car. He drives.

Crowley hands over a piece of paper upon which one line is highlighted. The man who takes the paper tries to breathe normally, but the air catches in his throat. Crowley smirks.

The impala searches each street in order, starting almost fatefully on the opposite side of town.

The man holding the paper reaches into his leather jacket, retrieving a remarkably clean handgun. He points and shoots, but the demon only sighs. He gestures to the paper and says the line out loud. The man shoots him again.

The impala is ten streets away.

Ten years, Crowley repeats with a smile. Killing the demon at the crossroads didn’t void the contract after all. The man shoots again.

The impala is three streets away.

Your time ends tomorrow, Crowley nods. The highlighted line burns red against the paper. December 25th, it says. The man shoots again.

In the passenger seat of the impala is a crumbled piece of paper. Though the man inside remains focused on his search, the streetlights passing by him read the note's one word over and over: goodbye.

I know, says the man to the demon. I know my time is up, but I need more.

Crowley, now tired of being shot, shakes his head and disappears in a swirl of snow. The leather jacket shakes as the man’s shoulders fall. The man stands in the snow, alone with his gun and a piece of paper.

The impala screeches to a halt. In the middle of the road is a man wearing a leather jacket. He is crying.

Sam, says the man, go back. I’m poison, Sammy. Get away from me.

Sam Winchester shakes his head, puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and takes a cord out of his pocket. An amulet glints a little under the light of a nearby streetlamp. No, Dean, he says. No.

Dean Winchester shakes his head, dropping the piece of paper to take the amulet. He holds it in his hand, apologizes, and punches his brother in the jaw. The large man falls back, momentarily unconscious. When he comes back to reality, he is covered in snow, the impala is gone, and the notice of Dean Winchester’s death is lying beside him on the ground.

The impala stops on a bridge, the headlights facing the railing and outlining the form of Dean Winchester, gun in hand, peering down at the water. Dean turns toward the street so he can watch the flickering lights of town before he falls backwards. He lifts the gun to his head. Now is the time, he says to himself. Goodbye.

“Help!”

Dean’s eyes flash open the gun drops. He spins.

“Help me!”

The voice is shouting from somewhere, but soon Dean realizes where. He looks down at the water under the bridge.

“Please! Help me!”

Dean immediately shrugs his leather jacket and jumps into the water.

It bites his ankles, weighs him down, and claws at his face. Still, Dean swims in the direction of a man who is flailing horribly against the icy grip of the river. Though the man appears rightfully panicked, there is something calm and purposeful about him. Dean grabs him and drags him to the snowy river bank. Before his legs go numb, he hoists the stranger to his feet and carries him into a nearby abandoned hut. He quickly starts a fire, strips his jeans, and rubs his arms to try to get warm.

The other man does the same, but his movements are more languid, deliberate, and even amused.

“What were you doing down there? Were you trying to get yourself killed?” Dean huffs angrily.

“I could ask you the same question,” answers the man. His blue eyes gleam in the firelight, accented beautifully by his dark, wet hair.

“Why would you jump into the water when it’s snowing outside? Are you insane?”

“Why would you stand on the edge of a bridge with a gun to your head? I only did what you were about to do. Seeing me jump was what stopped you from shooting, so I think I just saved your life.” The man only lightly waves his hands in front of the fire, as if he doesn’t need its warmth at all.

“You don’t know me,” Dean growls threateningly.

“Oh, but I do know you. I know everything about you, Dean Winchester.” Dean’s eyes shoot up to meet the stranger’s. “I know that when you were young, there was a fire that sent you on the path to save lives, beginning with your brother, Sam’s. I know you love pies so much because your mother, Mary, would make them especially for you every Sunday morning. I know you have an amulet in your pocket that your brother gave to you for Christmas one year. I also know that you consider yourself cursed, but you really shouldn’t say such things. You’ve really made a wonderful life, given what you had to build with.”

Dean blinks several times, leans back from the fire, and clenches his jaw. “Who are you?”

“Castiel,” says the man. “I’m an angel of the lord.”

Dean laughs. “Right. Aren’t you supposed to have fluffy wings and a halo and robes? You look like a holy tax accountant, if anything. And who even wears a trenchcoat anymore?”

For a moment, Castiel frowns pitifully at his coat, stroking it as if Dean might have hurt its feelings. Then, the angel shakes his head.

“I haven’t earned my wings yet,” he explains. “I have to complete my task first.”

“What task is that?” Dean asks. He immediately regrets it. He’s not sure if he’s humoring the man or if he's desperately trying to convince himself.

“You are my task,” Castiel answers unabashed. “It wasn’t easy thinking of a way to stop you from taking your life, but I soon realized the only way to stop you was to make you think someone else needed saving. I’m glad it worked.”

“Good job,” Dean smiles mockingly. “Now that you have your wings, fly away.”

“Well my task isn’t over yet, Dean,” Castiel nods seriously. “You’re still thinking about it, aren't you? Why is it you want to die so badly?”

Dean answers almost instantly due to frustration and exhaustion. “I made a deal ten years ago tomorrow to save my little brother. I killed the crossroads demon, and I thought that would be an end to it. I guess they have back-up records. Now I either have to wait for the hellhounds tomorrow or…”

“Or you end your life tonight?” Castiel finishes.

Dean nods hopelessly, rubbing his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. “It would have been better if I’d never been born at all,” he whispers.

There is a moment of silence as the snow falls heavily downward.

“Yes,” whispers the angel to the ceiling of the hut. “Yes, that just might do it.”

Dean rolls his eyes and looks up at the angel. “What are you talking about?”

“You think everyone would be better off if you’d never been born?” Castiel asks with a smile.

“Of course they would,” Dean answers sorrowfully.

“Fine, then. You’ve never been born.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments if you'd like!


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